


Cocky brother

by Joanna_Lee



Series: The Naturists [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Cock Tease, Cock Worship, Denial, Dirty Talk, Eventual Romance, Extremely Dubious Consent, Face Punching, Gratuitous Smut, Homoeroticism, Incest, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Moral Ambiguity, Nudity, Rough Kissing, Situational Humiliation, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2018-12-26 09:33:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12056169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joanna_Lee/pseuds/Joanna_Lee
Summary: Sam and Dean are two "straight" brothers who're nudists. They're used to being around each other totally naked, in a non-sexual way, stripping out of their clothes the moment they're home. It's all good until Sam breaks with tradition and starts getting unabashedly curious about Dean's body.There's no harm in looking, right? ... Cue pervert Sam and the looming threat of incest.Nothing too literary here, just unadulterated porn. The first chapter can be read as a one-shot/stand-alone fic.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a first of a series of one-shot fics, "The Naturists", about Sam and Dean living a nudist lifestyle.
> 
> You'll find smut, crack, some perverted minor characters, and situations that will probably never take place in real life. Most will be stand-alones and each will come with its own description. Some fics will have humor, some will be dark. Proceed at your own peril. Also, it'll help to suspend belief from time to time. ;-)
> 
> Some extreme dub-con, forced touching, forced sex in upcoming part(s) of this fic.

Sam can't pinpoint the exact moment his cock stirred, for the first time, as he looked at his naked older brother. But he knows it happened before.

And right now, it's happening again.

They are lying down in the living room, Dean on a love seat, and Sam sprawled on the couch, long limbs dangling off the edge, watching TV. Dean is sitting with his knees fanned out and the soles of his feet together, nursing a beer, and paying no attention to how his cock, balls and ass crack are gloriously exposed between his spread open legs.

Generally, the brothers have no modesty around each other. Raised in a nudist family, and used to sojourning to nudist resorts every summer, being naked to them (especially at home) is as natural as breathing.

Sam grew up sharing a bed, showers and baths with his older brother, and seeing him on display 24/7. There was no part of them that was hidden or forbidden to the other.

Sam's never really _actively_ paid attention to Dean's nudity - perhaps only as a preteen. Back then he'd developed a keen interest in his cock and in genitalia in general. He'd constantly want to compare the size of his shaft with his much more endowed older brother to gauge how far he was growing, and he'd whine if Dean denied him. He remembers keeping a ruler by the bed and measuring his dangling cock day in and day out. He also remembers Dean poking fun at him mercilessly -- until Sam outgrew Dean, everywhere, then it wasn't as much fun for Dean to mock his "little brother" who was little no more.

Despite their general lack of modesty, they do have some boundaries - mostly drawn out by Dean after they moved out of the family house, and started sharing an apartment. Just them; two straight bachelors, and no one else.

Here's how it goes:

Rule no. 1: They should never masturbate together.

Rule no. 2: They should never, ever touch each other's dangly bits. Or touch in general.

Rule no. 3: They can only hug when they're clothed. 

Rule no. 4: No one in Sandover, where they both work full time, should be privy to their lifestyle. They're not ashamed of it, but Dean believes their co-workers would either judge them or sexualize the act. (Sam doesn't care if their colleagues know. He'd go to work naked if the company lets him).

Rule no. 5: They shouldn't shower together now that they're both adults. They shouldn't share a bed, or piss or shit in front of each other. Bathroom privacy is sacred to Dean. 

Rule no 6: They should never have sex with girls while in the same room or in view of each other. Each should sleep with his girlfriend-of-the-month or random hook-up behind closed doors, and try to keep quiet. (That being said, Dean is a different brand of show-off: the "kiss and tell" type. While he may not enjoy being watched, he always gloats about his conquests later and they're not a few. Dean can swoon any woman and is somewhat of a slut for blondes. He mostly fucks his way through life, oversharing his sexapades among friends and work buddies. He's only demure and precious around Sam, it seems).

It's all fair and square (or at least mildly tolerable in Sam's books) until tonight, with Dean sitting opposite Sam looking like sin incarnate, knees splayed out, without a care in the world. To add to the glorious temptation, his brother is hard ... well, halfway to hard; his dick is chubbing out of a nest of dark curls.

Sam bites his lower lip, worrying it between his teeth, as a warm sensation bubbles within him at the sight. A naked sexually aroused Dean is certainly not something he's used to seeing at all and he kinda likes it.

They are both always soft around each other, their cocks retracted, flaccid, and flopping around when they're moving.

Sam thinks, it'll show loads of trust, perhaps even bring them closer together, if they start getting hard in front of each other. It's not like they can desire each other, he tells himself, they're both straight _and_ brothers.

Sam brings his focus back to Dean's penis. It could be the sensual sex scene playing on TV right now that triggered the arousal. Sure, it's not porn, but the mainstream movie's R-rated and has some intense scenes.

Whatever it is that's causing Dean to get hot and bothered, Sam admittedly wants it to go on so he can see more.

Sam is surprised to find that his heart is hammering in his chest, and this strange, curious sensation is pounding between his legs at the sight of his brother in his birthday suit, popping half a boner.

No matter how much Sam tries to will his eyes to stay on the TV screen, they betray him, flicker away and eventually lock on Dean's genitalia.

Dean's cock is exactly the ideal size; not porn-star-large but not small. It's a handsome, cut cock with a thick girth, a perfect mushroom head, and (curiously) a disproportionally large piss slit ( _which is kinda hot_ ) - and Dean's dick seems to always beg for attention.

He remembers how on nude beaches, people would accidentally stare at his big brother's dick a little too long. His, too (Sam's cock is, after all, impressive). But it was always Dean who would get flustered and quickly close his legs, or pull the towel over his naked penis if he caught someone staring at it, especially if it's another man — or perhaps _only_ when it's another man. Dean never seems to mind a woman's soft or flirtatious gaze. Men, predatory and exploitive, unnerve him. 

Sam, in contrast, would let his legs fall wider if he ever caught anyone leering — man, woman or child. He couldn't care less. He wouldn't even mind touching himself in public if he didn't know how much it'll scandalize his big brother and break one of their sacred _stupid, needless_ rules (jerking off in the other's presence). 

One time, on one of those nude beach trips, Sam even caught a sneaky older guy, probably in his late 50s, hiding his phone under a towel, and aiming it towards a sleeping Dean. He was probably either snapping a few pictures of Dean's most intimate parts, or taking a video (or doing both). Sam found it amusing and was happy to let the man knock himself out. At some point, the old man caught Sam watching him. Realizing how Sam must have figured out what he was up to, he got nervous and flipped the towel over his phone in an obvious attempt to hide it. He probably thought Sam was Dean's boyfriend or something. It was kinda amusing, actually, how flustered the old man got.

Sam just smiled and winked at him. 

He never mentioned to Dean that now some stranger who's almost as old as their dad has a picture (or ten) of his limp dick and hairless butt on his cell phone, probably still jerks off to that pretty sight at night ... perhaps even passes his phone around and shows the pictures off to his hairy, daddy-type friends. 

Maybe that video of his brother—naked, sun-kissed, spread out and snoozing—ended up on pornhub or some other adult website. Dean's toes would've curled in embarrassment if he knew, and that image alone sends a hot spark right to Sam's dick. He loves Dean's toes, and Dean's shy streak — although the latter, his brother tries to carefully mask under mucho bravado and a cocky swagger. 

But really, if even strangers in cloistered, otherwise jaded, nudist societies are _that_ interested in his brother's bits - snapping pictures and videos of his private parts for keepsakes, Sam doesn't think he can be blamed for wanting to indulge and look at Dean a little. He rarely ever does, _not with intent_ , and it's strange considering how long they've been in each other's pockets. He's always been curious about his big brother, sure, but something invisible always held him back.

Not today though. Today, Sam is re-writing the rules. 

"What the fuck do you think you're doing, bitch?" Dean asks, noticing his brother's insistent, unwavering gaze.

Sam quite reluctantly forces his gaze away from between his brother's thighs to find Dean staring him in the face, eyes narrowed. He's wearing a scowl that Sam thinks is very cute.

"What?!" Sam asks, shrugging, still lying back and chillaxing. _Feigning innocence never hurt anyone._

"You're staring?"

"So?"

"So, moron, you're not supposed to. I'm not your personal stripper. Keep your eyes away from my parts."

"Don't be such a jerk, Dean. I've seen you nude like a million times. If we didn't work together, I'd actually have a hard time remembering what you look like clothed."

"And yet, here you are, staring at my crotch, like a fucking faggot."

"That's offensive, Dean. Resorting to homophobic slurs? It's beneath _even you."_

"Well, excuse me if I'm uncomfortable with how my little brother is eyeballing my naked dick."

"Like I said, it's not anything that I haven't seen before."

"Then quit staring!" 

"Why are you being such a drama queen about it? I mean you're the one sitting with your legs spread out like a two-dollar-hooker," Sam says, and his eyes quickly dart down to take another look at Dean's dick, deliciously exposed. _It feels so good to look_ , like he's challenging Dean.

"The fuck, Sam! I'm at home, with my friggin' brother, not some perv. I'm winding down after a long day. I should be able to sit whichever way I want, like I'm used to, and you shouldn't ogle--SAM! My face is up here, fucker," Dean says, color rising up in his cheeks but stubbornly retaining his obscene sitting position. 

"If you're such a sensitive, delicate flower, De, and you don't want people to ogle, like you claim, then perhaps you should keep your legs together, man," Sam says, still keeping his eyes trained on Dean's cock, his voice getting hoarser. Sam's hand slips down to his junk and he starts lightly fondling his cock, which is taking quite an interest in this conversation and in how flushed and embarrassed Dean is. "Besides, the tip of your cock is wet. Like you're leaking or something, like you didn't dab or shake after pissing. And you have a chub, which is against the rules by the way. It's fucking arousing."

At Sam's words, Dean blushes furiously, and a hand comes down to cover his crotch. Sam's not wrong. He's at half mast.

"There's a naked chick getting fucked on TV, jerk. Can't blame a man for getting a little riled up. Not that I can help it," he says, explaining and slightly fumbling over his words. Dean actually brings his knees together, grabbing his cock tighter, trying to shield his nether regions from Sam's stare. It's not working with how his legs are bent and his feet is up off the floor, still resting on the edge of the seat.

He only just notices that Sam is touching himself as his eyes rack over Dean's body. He gawks at him ...

"Sam, for God's sake, are you getting off on this?" 

"Your balls are hanging out, De. And I can still see your little butthole," Sam says, ignoring his brother's stupid question. Of course, he's getting off.

And what if he wants to touch himself a little? Dean is pretty gorgeous, with his girly lashes, pouting lips and lithe figure, and Sam is only human. _Fuck Dean and his rules!_

Dean, who was until this moment still sitting with his legs pulled up, quickly adjusts himself and places his legs down on the floor instead, hiding his testicles and taint from view. He's now using both hands to cover his bare crotch, glaring at Sam, unbelieving. A hot flush of shame is turning his cheeks and chest red.

_Dean is such a princess, sometimes. Yet ironically it's Sam who gets called Samantha by his wisecracking big brother._

"I wasn't blaming you by the way," Sam says after a beat, length still in hand, jerking himself faster now. "I just never saw you get hard before, not like this. So yeah, I wanna watch a little, that's all. Relax, man. I'm not a stranger. I'm your brother."

"You're saying that like it's supposed to make me feel better."

"It should because I'd never perv on you. Come on, just let me look. What'd you have to lose?"

"Erm, my dignity?"

Sam snorted. "I've seen you naked in all kinds of positions, at all ages. We swam together, played football and even wrestled naked. I've seen your boy cock grow into a man cock right in front of my eyes. I still remember when you had no grass on the infield. I know your body like the back of my hand, De, from your littlest toe to the freckles around your shaved butthole. What dignity?"

"Shut the fuck up, Sam. Just shut your hole," Dean says, face heating up some more.

"Come on, man. Open your legs. I wanna see if you're still hard and wet," Sam says, his mouth salivating.

"No."

"At least take your hands away from your dick, jerk."

"Nope."

"For fuck's sake, are you going to stay like this all night, with your legs glued together like a blushing virgin?"

"Hell yeah ... if it'll keep your nose out of my business."

"Suit yourself, Dean."

"May be I'll even put on underwear from now on to keep your eyes from wandering where they shouldn't."

"Don't you dare, Dean! You can't joke about this," Sam says, sitting up.

"I'm not, Sam."

"Bullshit," Sam shoots back. _Fucking_ _prude_. "You can't put anything on as long as we're inside."

"Watch me," Dean says and springs up from the chair, his hands leaving his crotch, efforts to shield himself forgotten. His stiffy bobs with the sudden movement. It almost looks like Dean's skin is prickling with how irritated he is. 

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" Sam asks, and dives forward to clutch at Dean's wrist, pulling his brother close to him. Dean struggles and tries to free himself, but Sam's steel grip is keeping him where he is. Dean's brother is built like a brick, all solid muscle, no ounce of fat on his body. He's got his rigorous workout routine to thank for that. And thanks to that too, Dean is now trapped, unable to move without possibly breaking his damn wrist.

Sam plays his advantage, and starts whipping his dick with his free hand while shamelessly staring at Dean's dick, now more erect and pointing up. With him sitting and Dean standing, it's at Sam's eye level. _Fucking perfect._

"Sam, let me go!" Dean says, renewing his attempts to pull his arm free. All what the vigorous movements accomplish is make his hardening cock flop obscenely right under Sam's insistent gaze.

"Shhh, just stand still and let me look," says Sam, his breath hitched, his eyes zeroed in on Dean's erect penis. His brother's shame-filled, involuntary arousal is pushing him over the edge.

One hand is still holding on to Dean, the other is stripping his length furiously. Sam bites his lower lip, and feels his orgasm nearing. He's hard as rock now, his monstrous cock dripping wet with precum.

"De, turn around and bend over. Wanna look at your hole."

"Not happening, Sam. This is _sick_ ," Dean hisses as his cock treacherously twitches and spits a line of precum. 

"Not sick, we're brothers, we're both straight ... Oh, god, you're so wet. You're dripping. God!" Sam mumbles nonsensically, dizzy with arousal, his hips bucking upwards. "Come on, Dean. Be a good boy. Bear down and show me your asshole."

"Just finish so I could go," Dean says, feeling his hole clench. His breaths are jerking out of him.

In a first, Dean is perfectly aware of how naked he is, standing bare-assed at the mercy of Sam — the cool air caressing his entrance and his dick spilling gob after gob of precum. Drooling as his brother looks.

Sam pulls Dean closer, so roughly and suddenly that his older brother almost falls forward on him. Then he buries his nose in Dean's crotch, scenting the thick thatch of hair around his penis and nuzzling his brother's length and slippery cockhead. "Smells so good, De. Your musk is perfect," he says, and Dean could feel his brother trembling. "Your cock is so pretty, leaking for me," Sam whispers, his forehead flush with Dean's abdomen, his spit-wet lips brushing Dean's stiff shaft, his words vibrating against it. It's their first ever intimate skin-on-skin contact, aside from those times when their penises accidentally touched as kids when they showered together or wrestled or squeezed into a small bed.

Despite his chagrin, Dean's dick dribbles precum in abandon, so much that it eerily feels like pissing.

"Sam," Dean whispers softly, eyes burning, chest heaving. Sam's body starts spasming upon hearing his name, his ass lifting right off the couch as he comes.

Sam angles his pulsating penis down, spilling his seed over Dean's toes. It's like a dam broke. Sam's bulbous head is literally dripping wet by the end of that orgasm; Dean thinks it must be one of his hardest. 

When Sam comes down from his high, his shaggy-haired head comes up, and he looks drunk. The hand that was jerking his cock, only a moment ago, comes up and holds onto Dean's hip - and it's clammy and a little gross from all the come. His chin rests on Dean's lower belly, right below his navel, and he gazes at his big brother adoringly, like he'll soon build a temple dedicated to him and start worshipping at its shrine.

"Are you done, you pervert? Happy now, with the way my feet is covered in your come?" says Dean, voice weak and disgusted.

"You're rock hard," Sam notes, calmly, just stating a fact. His eyes are half-lidded and misty. Dean's dick trembles again, with the way Sam (still seated) is looking up at him, biting his plump, now swollen lower lip as he does. Unfortunately, he can't deny it: his dick _is_ hard and disgustingly sticky with precum. "I bet you're dying to spill, Dean. Come on, it's just us. Just let go, brother," Sam whispers, coaxing, voice shot to hell and sugar-sweet.

Dean holds his gaze for a moment without speaking. Then as if waking up from a dream, shakes his head from side to side, gulps audibly and shakes off his wrist, which Sam releases with ease this time around, letting him go.

"Have it your way, then ... Jerk," Sam mumbles, then falls back on the couch. He'll probably pass out in a minute in front of the TV from how hard he came, Dean thinks.

"Bitch," Dean says on reflex, and he means it, walking away from his brother and padding out of the living room and out of sight, cock painfully hard and bobbing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) For the sake of discretion, this chapter was originally published on the 12th of September at 4 am in one go without revisions, with (several) typos, and a few instances of bad grammar. I decided to come back to it—since I plan to build on this fic with a couple of more short chapters—to edit, revise, and fatten it up a little. It's why I thought I'd better re-publish, and give this copy a chance to be sampled and read. 
> 
> 2) More chapters may be added in the future. But this can still be read as a one-off.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is aloof. He also started wearing underwear around the house. Sam is offended and doesn't understand what he could have done wrong to deserve this. It's not like Sam 'bad touched' his brother or anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warnings for this chapter: extremely dubious consent, forced touching, mild watersports.

The next morning, it’s business as usual. Sam exchanges a few words with Dean over breakfast before they leave together for work. Dean is reserved and distant, wouldn’t meet his eyes, and seriously, Sam doesn't understand what crawled up his ass and died. When Sam puts on some music, to dampen the mood in the car, Dean roughly unplugs Sam’s ipod, telling him he can take his anemic alternative pop and shove it up his ass. “We’re playing adrenaline pumping metal and we’re playing it loud,” he adds, hooking up his own ipod instead. The tone is not playful; it’s harsh and final.

Sam rolls with it, lets his ears bleed from how loud and piercing Dean’s music is and doesn't so much as utter a peep as they drive to the office. Dean is sometimes a little bitchy in the morning. It’s not entirely out of the ordinary.

The brothers work in different departments at Sandover: Dean is the the director of sales and marketing, and Sam's in legal. But they usually sit down and have lunch together—alone or with other people. It’s almost a ritual, both brothers honoring it religiously. Their co-workers often, tauntingly, call them “boyfriends” or “sweethearts” for choosing to spend most of their free time together. Sam and Dean never deny that they enjoy each other's company ... tremendously.

So when it’s time for lunch, as per the habit, Sam swings by Dean’s corner office to pick him up. There’s this new eatery two blocks away that Sam wants them to try.

But Dean is still brusque and frosty, and he avoids Sam’s gaze when the latter marches up to him. He doesn’t want to have lunch together, and Sam thinks perhaps Dean’s nearing a tough deadline or under the gun from his bosses, or something. He knows Dean’s department is revving up for a big campaign.

But as it turns out, Dean just “wants some space”.

From Sam.

Naturally, Sam flips.

"What's got your panties all in a bunch, Dean? What's this nonsense—since when do we need space from each other?”

Dean does a slow burn. 

“Use your words, man!”

"Okay—you wanna talk? Let’s talk about last night,” Dean says, and gestures between them, pointing in the general direction of their groins.

“What about it?”

“What—you don’t recall? What happened between us, Sam—no? Nothing?”

"Sorry, I don’t follow,” Sam says, and slips his hands casually into his pants’ pockets, leaning against Dean’s conference table, situated right opposite his desk.

"You don’t—wow—okay, how about this: you were perving on me and you creeped me the fuck out,” Dean says, his face red. "You scared me, man!"

“How in hell did I manage to do that, Dean?” Sam asks, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Not that I believe it's possible for me to scare you but I'm curious. In case, you know, someone puts a gun to my head and demands an encore.”

“By rubbing one out, on our living room couch.” Dean answers, ignoring Sam’s jibe. “Defiling me, your own brother?"

"As if!” Sam says, snorting. Dean, the manwhore, is accusing his little brother of ‘defiling’ him. _Somebody alert the media_. “So I masturbated in your divine presence, Dean. That hardly counts as defiling. Honestly, you're being so fucking uptight. Didn’t dream you’d be that scandalised by something so,” Sam pauses, groping for the right word, “mundane."

"Mundane?" Dean asks, snickering bitterly, remembering his brother's flagrant disrespect and invasion of his personal space. He stands up and circles around his desk to face Sam. "There wasn’t anything remotely mundane about what you’ve done, or your flippant attitude for that matter—and, and—you're gross, dude, you came on my feet!" he hisses, suddenly lowering his voice, in case someone was eavesdropping on the other side of his office door. Dean happens to have a very nosy secretary.

"Why do you have so many hang-ups about the human body, Dean? I mean, it's almost offensive considering how we grew up and who we are. And what if I looked at you a little last night? I know it’s not what brothers normally do. But it’s not like we’re the embodiment of traditional values here.”

"For a smart guy, you can sometimes be so fucking daft, Sam. It's not the human body or the nudity or even the gratuitous staring bit that that got under my skin. It's the jerking off your cock and rubbing it in my face as you _looked_ at me bit."

"To be fair, it was _your_ cock in _my_ face.”

“That was figurativ--Point is, you got up in my space, bitch!”

“Big deal," Sam says, shrugging his shoulders noncommittally.

“That’s all you gotta say for yourself? Big deal?”

“What exactly do you want me to say? That I'm sorry? Alright, I’m sorry if I offended your delicate sensibilities, Dean.”

Sam doesn’t even know what he’s apologizing for. Last night, he acted on impulse, sure, but he doesn’t regret it. It’s actually one of the few times where he felt truly alive, his nerves dancing with pleasure at being so close to his brother. Sure, Dean might have gotten a little uncomfortable, taking issue with the simple fact that Sam is a man with base, carnal needs. Well, that’s Dean’s problem not Sam’s. Frankly, he’s not even a little sorry.

“And here I am, thinking that in the light of day I can actually drill the reality of the situation into that freakish Cro-Magnon skull of yours!”

Dean is apparently affected by what happened but Sam decides they’ve talked enough, and that it’s time to sweep it under the carpet. They need to move on. Besides, his stomach is grumbling.

“Alright, I’m getting hungry here. Are you coming to lunch or what?”

“Or what.”

“Have it your way, jerk.”

Later that day, when they’re driving back home, Dean is still snippy. “Would you chill? I can hear you thinking from over here. You’ll burst a vein, man,” Sam says, but somehow, Dean grinds his teeth even harder, and keeps his eyes on the road, pouting aggressively. Whatever thoughts are going through his head, they’re not sweet.

Back at their condo, when Dean’s done showering, and after he finally pops out of his self-imposed solitary confinement, Sam is beside himself with anger when he sees that Dean is sauntering around their home wearing a pair of white y-front briefs.

Yes, that’s right. _Wearing. Clothes. Indoors._ It’s simply unacceptable and Sam decides to put an end to it.

He doesn't waste his breath. Sam practically jumps Dean and tries to forcefully tug his underwear off. After some struggling, and pushing and pulling, he succeeds in tearing the number when he pulls too hard on the front. Dean’s soft cock ends up spilling out of its cotton sheath.

With some extra effort from Sam, the briefs are torn to rags, and they slip off, dropping down Dean’s legs to bunch around his ankles, leaving Dean naked - _as he should be_ , Sam thinks.

Seeing an opening, literally and figuratively, Sam wraps a fist around Dean’s limp appendage and starts tugging. He doesn’t know why he does it but something primal is stirring in him and he feels almost obliged to show Dean that his parts belong to Sam too, that he shouldn’t - dare not - hide them from him.

Dean’s cock does feel good in his hands, especially as it gives little jerks, quivering and twitching shyly under the insistent fondling despite Dean's chagrin. He’s never touched Dean before.

Sam loves it. His own cock is quickly hardening.

The pleasure, however, is short-lived.

Dean, who looks furious, shoves Sam violently away from him, steps out of his now-ruined underwear, then blows out of the living room and runs off like a hormonal teenager. Dean’s bedroom door rattles with how hard Dean slams it shut behind him. _Melodramatic jerk._

Dean hides out in his room for the rest of the night. Sam lets him.

….

Sam is burning hot with agitation. He tosses and turns for a couple of hours in bed before he decides that’s it, kicks off the covers and hurtles out of bed. He fixes himself a glass of bourbon, then sits with his ipad, and surfs. When his limbs tingle with the familiar buzz of alcohol an hour or so later, he throws the ipad aside, gets up and makes a stop at Dean’s room.

Dean is sleeping, arms flung out and legs spread, on his stomach. No covers. He’s gloriously naked, thank God, and sound asleep.

Sam stands there and just looks as the light from the hallway throws a faint shimmer across Dean’s skin, now lacquered with a thin sheet of sweat.

Dean’s knees are always butterflied open or spread wide, even in sleep, Sam notes. His body wants to be seen, opened and exhibited, it seems, even if he doesn’t realize it on a conscious level.

Sam’s gaze stops at Dean’s ass, then travels between Dean’s legs, where the head of his cock is poking out. The sheets are a little damp around it, and it suddenly hits Sam that his brother might’ve jerked off, or rubbed himself and came on the sheets before dozing off (humping the bed and creaming himself like a fucking 12-year-old, shamelessly smearing the expensive bedcover). He may have passed out after reaching orgasm. Could it be that? _Nah_ , Sam thinks, he was probably too lazy to get up and clean, _the sloppy jerk_ , so he just opened his legs wider and stayed where he is; his cock resting against the wet spot.

 _Slut_ , Sam thinks, face burning and cock waking up at the sight. The maid comes in everyday for a few hours while they’re at work to clean up their mess, and Sam thinks, she’ll have to see this. She’ll see the come, recognize it for what it is and know that Dean wet the bed with his seed.

Sam finds himself moving, doesn’t know if it’s the fog from the alcohol he downed, or sheer will that animated his limbs into action. He goes to his room, gets his phone then pads back to Dean’s. He slides onto his big brother’s bed, and between Dean’s knees, moving as softly as he can considering he’s a little tipsy, and just sits there, staring.

He uses his thumb to spread one cheek away from the other and looks at Dean's hole. It’s shiny with slick.

Sam’s thumb runs down Dean’s crack, and smoothes along his entrance. He bends over to take a sniff. Durex Pineapple. ... Dean’s asshole is wet with lube.

There’s only one explanation: His big brother finger fucked himself until he got off. Sam’s breathing hitches as he conjures the slutty image in his head.

With his free hand, Sam swipes open the flashlight on his phone, points it at Dean's open ass.

Dean’s hole is perfectly round, tight and hairless like a baby’s. His vain brother waxes it bare. Every time he'd catch glimpses of it, when Dean bends over or when he's sitting with his legs splayed or folded underneath him, Sam would always wonder about how small it is, or whether his finger would ever fit. He’d often wanted to expose it under a light and peer inside.

It’s a virgin-hole, no doubt. Sam knows that no cock has ever breached it, especially that Dean is straight as an arrow, but obviously, Dean plays.

And now Sam wants to play too.

Acting out the fantasy, and putting actions to thought, Sam gently slips the tip of his index finger into Dean’s hole. It's slippery and warm, welcoming. He slowly pushes and prods until he manages to wedge in a full knuckle.

It’s so tight in there, the walls of Dean’s secret passage is gripping Sam’s finger like it doesn’t want to let go. _Clingy little hole_ , Sam thinks and he chuckles.

He pushes and his finger sinks in another knuckle, until it’s buried to the hilt in his brother’s lubed behind.

Sam starts to move his finger around, practically massaging Dean’s passage, watching in awe, his finger _inside_ Dean. His own cock trembles in arousal. He might come untouched if he keeps this up a little longer.

He starts rubbing deeper, and his movement speeds up. Then Sam starts pistoning his finger instead; ramming the digit in and out of Dean’s entrance.

Dean comes to—getting startled by a hard thrust. He tries to flip himself over, but Sam is faster, quickly throws his entire weight on Dean’s back, pinning him to the bed, keeping his finger wedged deep in Dean’s butthole.

He lets his phone slide out of his hand and instead grips one of Dean’s fists to control his movement. Dean is thrashing wildly, and crying out, but with 200 pounds of Sam on top of him, he’s not going anywhere.

“Shhh, Dean, easy, it’s just me,” Sam whispers, his voice molasses sweet, calm like his finger is not invading his big brother in the most intimate of places.

“Have you gone mad? Get off,” Dean shouts, shocked and indignant.

“Dean, I just want to touch, alright? Your legs were open and your hole was on display, pink and wet. It looked so good, man! I couldn’t help myself,” Sam says. In this position, one of Dean’s thighs is sandwiched between Sam’s own. So Sam starts rutting against it, hips churning, his hard prick poking it, dripping precum and painting it with pearly lines of slick. “I pushed my finger inside, and it was so slippery, De.”

“Shut the fuck up Sam, and get off of me. I’ll fucking break your neck if you don’t move right this second.”

When Sam just continues to hump the back of his thigh, Dean adds in a strained voice, “Your finger is hurting me.” He does sound genuinely pained, and it tugs at Sam’s heartstrings. So he softens a little, and eases his thrusts.

“Sweetheart, it’s because you’re wriggling. Just relax your asshole, and it’ll be good, I promise,” Sam coos in his brother’s ears, still insistently rubbing with his finger. He accidentally hits Dean’s prostate and his big brother cries out brokenly, but it’s not in pain this time.

The shudder that runs through Dean's body as it's plastered to Sam’s is proof enough.

Sam repeats the action, and Dean writhes underneath him. “That’s it, De. Spread your legs wider. Let me do this right.”

Dean struggles again but Sam’s gigantic body anchors him in place.

When Dean tries to speak, Sam’s hand lets go of his fist, and goes to his mouth instead, covering it and effectively hand gagging Dean.

Sam’s forehead rests against the side of Dean’s head and he concentrates on pleasuring Dean, rubbing the pad of his finger against his prostate over and over, and enjoying how Dean’s hips are jerking, his ass flexing and legs trembling.

Dean groans and moans, the muffled sounds he’s making vibrating against Sam’s open palm, and somehow, the thwarted protests are turning Sam on even more.

Dean, perhaps involuntarily, starts grinding against the bed in desperate circles, hips undulating, ass dancing on Sam’s finger and his love juices flowing.

“Are you hard for me, Dean? Getting wet on my finger?” Sam whispers, moving his head a margin so they’re cheek to cheek. He doesn’t expect an answer of course. His brother grunts, and struggles against him again, but the more he does, the faster Sam fucks him with his finger.

Sam starts putting his mouth to better use, turning Dean’s head towards him, and laving at his brother’s skin, kissing and licking his cheeks, his nose, his eye lids. He removes his hand from Dean’s mouth, and before his brother can utter a single protest, he smashes their lips together, swallowing Dean’s words before they come.

The kissing is aggressive, violent almost, and Sam takes no prisoners; he bites, and eats at Dean’s mouth like a hungry beast, kisses hot and urgent. When Dean opens his mouth a little to breathe, Sam snakes his tongue in and laps at the inside of Dean’s lax mouth. Dean grunts against the lewd invasion, he’s still stiff and a little feisty but he can’t do much, mounted by his brother and getting owned in his own bed like this.

Sam continues to kiss, and it feels like Dean is his husband, not his brother. He imagines they'd be kissing like this if they were just married and on their honeymoon.

When Sam’s done with him, Dean’s lips will probably look cherry-red and bee-stung. The next day, he’ll look wrecked at work, and Sam will walk around a happy man knowing that it’s him, this time around, and not some random blonde, that made his brother look so fucked out.

The image makes Sam come mid-thrust, splattering down onto Dean, as he kisses and kisses.

His finger stills for a moment inside Dean as he rides the nearly paralyzing wave of pleasure, warm seed soaking his brother's body. When he’s partly himself again, he gives Dean’s lips a short reprieve, and goes to town on his ass, slipping in another finger, and then another and pumping wildly against his big brother’s sweet spot until he feels Dean spill below him, thick ribbons of white cum erupting from his cock.

He doesn’t let until Dean is milked dry.

Their spent limbs sag, bodies collapsing, and Dean finally surrenders; all the fight and tension leave him.

The brothers lie on top of each other in a sweaty heap, faces still turned towards one other, lips brushing, impossibly close, breathing the same air. Sam doesn’t pull his finger out. He just plays with Dean’s rim, tugging, and pulling this way and that, soaking up the pleasure that comes from using his brother like this.

Only their pulsating breaths can be heard now.

It’s Sam who breaks the silence a moment later as the sensations ebb away and the trills of orgasm wane. “Is this your first time? I mean, having someone else’s finger in your ass? Abusing your hole?”

Dean eyes flutter open, and Sam notices that they’re wet with tears. Dean’s cheeks too, now that he’s looking.

“What’s the matter, Dean?”

“Please leave me alone. You got what you wanted, right?” Dean croaks, and more tears spill wetting his face.

“No, I wanna stay like this,” Sam says, and leans forwards an inch to place a soft lingering kiss against Dean’s spit-slick, swollen lips, now wet with tears too. Dean’s lips remain lax; he doesn’t kiss back, but he doesn’t try to push Sam away either. “I like being close to you.” _Kiss_. “It’s soothing.” _Kiss_. “You’re everything, Dean, you know this?” _Kiss_. “Please don’t cry.”

His big brother doesn’t answer, just bolts his eyes shut, as the kisses come, butterfly soft and tender, one after another. Dean would describe them as sweet if they hadn’t been preceded by that forced and rough fingerfucking.

They lie like this for a while until Dean starts squirming. “Sam, that’s enough. Move your ass! You’re suffocating me.”

“I know you can handle the weight, De,” Sam whispers. “'Sides, I wanna sleep like this.”

“Can’t do. Come on,” Dean says, and he sounds a little like himself again. Sam pets Dean’s hair but doesn’t move an inch.

“I need to go, okay?” Dean says.

“Go where?”

“I need to drain the lizard, bitch. My bladder’s full.”

“So go here," Sam says, tentatively.

“What the fuck, Sam?” Dean says, flush creeping up his face.

“I’m serious. We’ve already ruined the sheets. You might as well finish the job. 'Sides, peeing yourself? It's hot.”

“You’ve lost it, haven’t you? You’ve gone full batshit mad.”

“It’s not like we’ve never wet the beds before,” Sam reasons.

“Yeah, when we were like 2 and 6, asshole. Come on, Sam, move, I can’t hold it any longer.”

“And I’m telling you, Dean, you don’t have to,” Sam says, grinding his crotch against Dean to make his point.

Dean and Sam keep arguing, back and worth, as Dean flails and bucks so hard, arching his back in an effort to throw Sam off. Sam just molds his frame into his brother’s smaller one tightly, gluing them together.

“I’m sure all the wiggling combined with my weight is not doing you any favors, De,” Sam says, a hint of a smile caressing his lips. “Go ahead, relieve yourself, man.”

“You’re disgusting,” Dean says, miserably, his breaths short and his lungs working overtime. His eyes are squeezed shut, and he's biting his lips bruisingly hard.

“Stop worrying your lips. Dean, nothing that comes out of you, out of us, is disgusting. The body is a beautiful thing. Your prick, especially, is perfect,” Sam says, rubbing his lips against Dean’s.

“Argh, stop waxing lyrical you fucking hedonist, this is torture,” Dean says, opening his eyes and gazing at Sam.

“Hush now, I know how to make this easier,” Sam says, lips now pressed lightly to Dean’s cheek and a finger ghosting over his asshole.

Dean stifles a moan, his hole twitching and fluttering under Sam's barely there touches.

"I'm not gay, you know," Dean mutters, after a beat.

"Says the man covered in my spunk," Sam shoots back with a sly smile, as he continues to circle Dean's rim with a finger, looking right into his brother's green eyes.

Dean glares at him.

"Alright, alright. Neither am I," Sam says. "Still wouldn't stop me from fucking your ass."

“Don’t you dare," Dean says, his voice gaining an edge of panic, his butt clenching.

“Fine, how about this?” Sam says, hand worming between Dean’s leg and playing with his sac instead.

Dean’s almost breathless, with his bladder about to burst and his balls being lightly fondled.

When Sam’s lips find his, and start to suckle, Dean mewls and whimpers, his cock dribbling despite his efforts, spurts of pee wetting the bed and soiling the inside of his thighs. His cheeks flame in embarrassment, his eyes welling up.

The pressure on the inside of his dick is unbearable, almost arousing.

“I'm gonna stick my neck out and say this feels good for you, right Dean?” Sam says, clearly pleased with himself. Again, Dean opts for silence, but his body speaks for him.

What finally does it though—is not the dirty talk, or the groping, or Sam's unstoppable kisses—it’s the sensation of a sudden warm wetness. It takes Dean off guard, and a full two seconds for him to realize it’s not his, and that it’s too much to be come.

It’s Sam, his little brother pissing on him.

Like a switch that has been flicked off, Dean’s body does an about face, goes slack and decides to give in. His dick flexes and he starts pissing too. A moan escapes his lips. 

“You’re so beautiful like this,” Sam murmurs softly, momentarily releasing Dean’s lips. “I can’t believe you’re letting me have this.”

He looks Dean in the eyes, and whispers, “Come on, brother, let's not hold back.” And they don't. Together, Sam and Dean completely soak themselves, their gazes locked and foreheads pressed together, the golden streams of their urine mixing and drenching the sheets in waves until both their bladders are empty ... until they squirt every last drop.

“I love you, Dean,” Sam says, blissed out, lips grazing across Dean’s, as they lie together, in a puddle of come and piss. Sam goes back to kissing Dean's mouth, and his brother —demurely at first — kisses back.

Half an hour later, Sam gives his big brother one final slow kiss, before he disentangles himself from him and gets up to shower.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean puts his foot down, and lays some fresh ground-rules. Sam obliges in fear of losing his brother. But it's never that simple, is it? 
> 
> Coming up: two emotionally congested, and psychotically, irrationally, erotically codependent brothers who finally agree they feel things for each other, even if they don't say it in so many words ;-)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Brace yourself for some (non-sexual) violence. 
> 
> No smut, only feels for the final chapter.
> 
> (I might come back and add a smutty tailpiece, but that depends on whether you guys want more or not).

Sam woke up the next morning beaming, with a dreamy look in his eyes. He was _with_ Dean. He got to touch Dean, _his own brother Dean_. He kissed him. He fingered him. His swashbuckling, heartbreaker, hot as fuck, brother. _His Dean_. It’s like a dream he never realized he had until he allowed himself to entertain it.

Feeling that they covered a lot of ground the night before, Sam puckers up and leans in for a kiss when Dean, nude and beautiful, shuffles into the kitchen. But what he gets is not a kiss but a heavy punch to the face that leaves him with a stinging pain behind his eyes and the taste of copper in his mouth.

Before he gets a chance to recover, another punch lands. Sam’s ears ring with it.

There are punches and then there are punches, and these are _not_ half-assed jabs, or sloppy swings; these are mean, straight punches with heat behind them and finesse—strong statements, in bold, embossed, with exclamation marks at the end. Punches that are meant to etch a mark.

When his head whips forward again, Sam wants to speak, wants to tell Dean it’s enough (a third punch, if it comes, would definitely knock him out cold), but he feels his mouth fill with blood and immediately runs to the sink ... or tries to. Before he reaches it, his head sways and he bends forward and starts gagging.

Apparently, he bit his tongue the first time Dean punched him (it’s throbbing), and now he’s spurting blood, spattering it on the kitchen floor.

He’s at it for a few seconds before he feels a warm hand land on the back of his neck, kneading lightly. “Easy,” Dean says hoarsely. Knowing his brother, he’s probably already guilty. “You're OK, Sam. Just breathe.”

Dean helps him walk to the sink, back still slightly bent.

Despite Sam’s shock, and the fact that the assault came from Dean, his big brother’s voice and his touch calm him down. It’s instinct.

Sam holds onto the sink’s rim to steady himself better, settles his breathing then rinses his mouth a few times, before drawing himself to his full height again. Feeling around with his bruised tongue, he can tell that at least one of his back teeth is partially dislodged.

His big brother leaves his side for a moment then comes back with a piece of ice for Sam to suck on and it numbs the pain in his tongue a little. His lower lip is split too (he can also feel his nose swell), his jaw is sprained and Sam’s quite sure that he’ll show up at work sporting dark bruises on one side of his face for a week. _Jeez, thanks Dean_.

So much for their steamy lovemaking the night before.

Now, Sam will have to sit through business meetings looking like the city’s latest poster child for domestic violence.

Frankly, Sam thought that he’d planted a flag last night but judging from the mood this morning, it looks like he planted the seeds of a clusterfuck.

 _Didn’t Dean want this too?_ He was practically asking for it, sprawled on his bed, limbs loose and hole already slick with lube. Besides, he came as he lay beneath him, with Sam’s fingers deep _inside_ of him. Sam acknowledges that it was (sort of) a helpless orgasm, in retrospect, but it was an orgasm nonetheless.

 _Damn it_ , Dean never lays a finger on him. The last time they threw punches at each other, they were angry teenagers, testing the limits of their bodies and overflowing with angst. Dean hitting him with an intent to hurt and maim, bruising him like this? That’s big. In fact, it’s unprecedented.

Sam mulls this over for a second, and it suddenly lands. If Dean’s half-assed protests last night weren’t an act to preserve his dignity or weren’t born out of big-brother guilt, Sam will now have to work hard to turn this around, to gain back his brother’s confidence. He genuinely thought his brother was being his usual stubborn-ass self, _not_ that he hated it enough to want to break Sam’s face. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._

Meanwhile, as the thoughts thrum in Sam's head, Dean makes a saline solution using table salt and water and asks Sam to swish with a mouthful of salt water and spit. Sam does and winces from the sting. His brother then fetches their emergency kit, sits Sam down at their kitchen table, and goes to work on repairing the damage. Sam just blinks owlishly at Dean, eyes trained on his face, now shut off and neutral. He can’t read him. Dean is attending to him, sure. But that’s his brother. He might be seething inside and he’d still take care of him—his big brother has elevated sibling-protectiveness to an art form.

A part of him is well aware that he might have deserved the punches for pushing Dean a little too far out of his comfort zone last night, but the other parts—the parts that have become obsessed with Dean, and can’t seem to resist him, the parts that are waking up to the previously dormant feelings now coursing within him—are not remorseful.

“Just wanted to straighten you up a bit,” Dean murmurs as he dabs at Sam’s injured lip with ointment. “You can’t pull this shit on me again, Sam,” he adds, his voice serious but more tender than Sam expects it to be considering he just greeted him with not one but two brain-rattling back-to-back sucker punches.

Dean gives him a cold press to hold to his now-swollen cheek.

“I thought—you know—you wanted it too but were holding back ‘cause we’re brothers or for whatever fucked up reason,” Sam says, the tang of blood lingering. The ringing in his ear is not letting up either.

“What gave me away, Sam?” Dean says, sarcasm lacing his words, but still too calm for the situation. “The crying or all the thrashing while I was trying to get free?”

“We might have gotten into a bit of a struggle snuggle at first but then you—”

“Sam, don’t,” Dean says warningly, cutting him off mid-sentence. “Don’t you dare gaslight me. It’s unfair and it’s not something we do to each other. I never wanted _this thing_ and _you_ know it. … You try something like this again, and I’ll walk.”

That last threat makes Sam’s blood run cold. He can’t live without Dean, can’t imagine it. Even when each went to Stanford, four years apart, the other lived in the Bay Area, and they came back home to each other. They’d never been separated, _ever_.

“Yeah, I get it. I slipped up. Sorry,” Sam says, one side of his face throbbing and his neck whiplashed from the impact. He’s definitely not angling for another blow. “Next time, a little warning before you cuff me will be appreciated.”

“Why, you planning on jumping me again?”

“Nope. Lesson learned,” Sam says, although he finds it hard to believe that he’ll be able to hold back now that he knows what Dean’s lips and the hot press of them against his mouth taste like. _How is it fair that all those nameless whores get to kiss Dean, and have him like this, and not him?_

“You gotta promise me, man, or risk losing me. I mean it.”

“Okay,” he says, his head swimming and Dean coming in and out of view. When Dean quirks a brow at his clipped answer, he adds, “Alright, I promise. Anything for you, Dean.”

Dean fixes him with a level gaze, trying to gauge his sincerity, and frankly, Sam feels stark naked, not just physically. Mentally shifting under Dean’s silent scrutiny, it feels like his soul is being gutted open.

“Man, don’t ever think that your puppy eye powers will have any effect on me when it comes to this,” Dean finally says. “You can’t walk all over me.”

“I swear I’m not doing anything. My vision is blurred anyway, I can barely see you with my left eye—that was a hell of a reaction, De.”

“Oh well, can’t say it isn’t deserved,” Dean says, tonally soft, then he pushes the chair back, and gets up. Sam tries not to stare at Dean’s flaccid cock, jiggling as he moves.

Before he goes back to his room to get ready for work, Dean leans in to place a tender kiss on his forehead, and then another on his unbattered cheek.

And suddenly, Sam is back to square one—the chaste yet incredibly sweet kisses leaving his skin tingling and his brain more than a little confused.

“I’d call in sick if I were you. You can’t go to work looking like this,” Dean says casually, as he disappears from view. Then he bellows, “keep your phone on you at all times.”

Sam doesn’t have much of a choice. He ends up calling his boss and doesn’t even dress it up; he tells Zachariah that he had a dust up that left his face black and blue and his head possibly concussed. He’s not presentable, a blinding headache is creeping in and he’ll need to rest. Zachariah, the hard ass, isn’t pleased at all but faced with no other choice, he lets him off the hook.

Every hour Dean calls him to make sure he’s alright, that the damage isn’t too bad. Sam keeps sounding worse. When the phone keeps chiming for a while on the third call and Sam picks up slurring his words, telling Dean he’s a bit nauseous and he might’ve passed out a “little, only a little”, Dean tells him to stay where he is, and that he’s coming to get him. “Sammy, I’m moving already,” he says.

Being called by his childhood nickname with Dean being so alarmed _for him_  does not give Sam butterflies; _it really, really doesn’t_.

Dean rushes back at lightning speed and drives him to the ER for a check up.

Turns out there’s a concussion, it’s mild, but he has to keep tabs on the symptoms. He’s sent home, but he’s told to take a break from work for a couple of days, rest, eat well, and avoid bright lights and loud noises. No screen time either. And he’s to report back to ER if he feels dizzy, dazed or is throwing up. _Fucking perfect_ , Sam thinks, bracing himself for climbing the walls with boredom. He’s not even allowed to read a book.

Dean takes the rest of the day off work, and plasters himself to Sam’s side, coddling him and cooking him a meal, and, the next morning, he even offers to help him shower—an offer that Sam declines because the temptation to pull Dean into the stall with him to make out under the water spray would’ve been huge. _He’s not craving any more beatings,_ _thank you very much_.

Already, Sam is having a hard time keeping his gaze neutral when it comes to his big brother. When Dean’s not looking, Sam can’t help but stare longingly at his brother’s nakedness—his bowed legs, strong thighs and firm butt. Even looking at Dean’s toes makes Sam feel warm between his legs. If for whatever reason, as he’s bending or kneeling, Dean’s butt cheeks part and Sam catches a peak of his cute hole, Sam keeps thinking about how his finger was _in there_ , inside that tight heat, and he risks both getting a headache from straining his mind, and popping a boner. Being naked 24/7, for the first time, feels like a liability not a convenience.

They settle on a bath instead, when Dean is back from work (earlier than usual). Dean hovers and Sam keeps his hands at a healthy distance from his brother’s body—he doesn’t want to risk another row or Dean leaving him. The latter just can’t happen.  

When they’re having dinner, with Dean at the table still wearing his “kiss the cook” apron and Sam naked as the day he was born, Sam’s eyes keep darting to Dean’s perky nipples, the rosy buds playing peek-a-boo with the apron’s rim which is sitting low on Dean’s chest. Sam wants to bend forward and flick his tongue over the supple flesh, just to taste, nothing else. He really isn’t gay or anything. Sam just wants his brother, that’s all.

Thankfully, Dean is oblivious to his little brother’s thoughts.

Sam can see that Dean is fidgeting, wanting to speak but second guessing himself every time he opens his mouth—it’s funny, Dean's mouth is gaping like a fish, but Sam pretends not to notice. Instead, he keeps stealing glancing at those sexy, tempting nips.

“Sam, did I—you know, when we were kids—did I do anything, accidentally, that made you, you know, start feeling certain things? Like, for me? You know, wanting to do things—erm, that we shouldn’t do,” Dean finally says, keeping his gaze on his plate all through, and gulping audibly when he’s done.

When Sam doesn’t respond and continues to leer at Dean, his brother finally looks up, his eyes expectant.

“Oh, I’m sorry, you were done? Was that supposed to make any sense?” Sam asks, and he’s pretty serious. _Was that English?_

“Sam, did I invite _this_ in any way? Was I sending any wrong signals?”

“What’s _this_? Dean, what the hell are you on about?”

“The sexual stuff, Sam. Did I say or do anything _suggestive_ when you were a kid, give out a certain vibe—” Dean lets the sentence drag, “—perhaps you were too young to recall,” and instead of fumbling for words any longer, he just looks at Sam pleadingly, like he’s begging him to get it, and Sam finally gets it. He’s horrified. Dean never—

“No, Dean. What the fuck? No, you were— _are_ the perfect big brother. Always have been.”

“Then, where is this coming from?”

Sam wants to have this conversation, he really does. Because then he can tell his brother that he doesn’t know where it’s coming from either, but that it was a long time coming. But his head is hurting and the memory of the harsh blows is too fresh, so he decides to save it for later.

“Dean, I have a headache. Can we talk later? I don’t wanna strain myself, okay?”

“Sure, Sammy. Take it easy.”

“Hey, don’t blame yourself. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Dean nods. And Sam hopes his over-protective, over-thinking brother is truly convinced.

…

A week after the breath is punched out of Sam, the memory of the blows and Dean’s warnings slowly fade and Sam goes back to staring at Dean and sneaking in touches—he can’t help it but this time he doesn't indulge himself too much or too openly.

Sam only allows himself small things: laying his head on Dean’s shoulder while they watch TV (despite feeling Dean tense), always sitting with a thigh or a knee touching Dean's (whether they’re at home or outside), and occasionally pecking Dean on the cheeks (sometimes a little too close to his lips)—the latter Dean protests to, but mostly jokingly and not enough.

In general, Dean seems to be getting used to these lazy, almost casual touches. He only gets dismissive or prissy when Sam is more direct, and in-your-face.

Meanwhile, Dean himself is back to being open and loose, his legs parting whenever he lies down or sits back, and he really doesn’t seem to care what’s on display—cock, nutsack, or his winking little butthole. Most of the time, Sam is usually sitting a foot or two away, burning with shame and trembling with arousal at how much he wants his brother. A couple of times, Dean even catches Sam staring, but instead of shying away, he always meets his gaze steadily, as if daring Sam to make a move. It’s a trial by fire and Dean seems more than content to put Sam through it. 

Sam endures, until he decides on a different tactic: wooing.

So he takes Dean out to a candle-lit dinner on a Friday night. It’s a fancy restaurant, their table is somewhat secluded, the mood is almost sensual and they're both dressed to a tee. Sam glances past Dean, seeing the maitre D’ and nodding him over. He orders wine, the expensive kind, and Dean seems to see right through it.

“You think that by laying it on thick and buying me dinner, I’m going to swoon and let you bone me.”

“I don't know, you tell me. Is it working?”

“Oh, Sam. I’m not _that_ easy.”

“Negotiable. I’ve seen you put out on the first date plenty of times," Sam says, smiling.

“Not this time. Or I would’ve if, say, you were a hot blonde. With tits.”

"Classy, De."

"You know, busty, double Ds. Down to here," Dean says, holding his hands out in front of him, cupping huge, imaginary tits.

“Vulgar, as always," Sam says, playfully. 

“Look, it's not personal, bitch. You’re just lacking the right equipment.”

“Jerk, I’m not lacking anywhere, and _you_ should know this by now,” Sam says, a touch smug. 

“Yeah, lucky me,” Dean says, deadpanning. 

Although their banter has so far been light, Dean’s eyes dart down with those last words, and his cheeks flush. Honestly, Sam meant Dean should know because they're always naked around each other, not because—he suddenly flounders, realizing Dean’s mind probably flitted back to _that night_. They're both saved by the reappearance of the maitre d’ with their wine. They sample it; it’s exquisite, and the man pours them two glasses.

“Anyway, you always go for people who love you less than you deserve, Dean,” Sam says, suddenly serious. “Perhaps it’s time you try something different.”

Dean pounds back his wine and doesn’t grace this with a response.

….

“I want you,” Sam finally says it, while they're having lunch at the company’s gourmet cafeteria, and many of their colleagues are in earshot.

Dean almost chokes on his food, and a few people, a little alarmed, glance their way.

When Dean has regained his composure, Sam continues. “You wanted to know where this is coming from? Well, this is where it’s coming from: I’m tired of looking at you, and not being able to have you—”

“Sam,” Dean says warningly. Sam lowers his voice out of courtesy.

“It’s torture. Ever since that night, I haven't stopped fantasizing about you, about what I could do to you. I wanna kiss you everywhere, Dean, and, and—”

“Sam, not here!”

“I wanna fuck you Dean, fuck you fast and brutal until it’s just me that you’re thinking of. Until you swear off all the other girls.”

“Sam, please,” Dean says, and he’s flustered, and looks about two seconds away from crying. He also keeps looking over his shoulders to see if someone is listening in to this toe-curling conversation.

“You said, if I try anything again, you’ll walk. What I’m telling you is this, if I don’t, _I’ll walk_."

"Sammy, stop. You can't."

"I kissed you and I realized it’s what I’ve always wanted. It's like waking up from a dream, De.”

Dean’s fists are clenched. He’s pouting, breaking in cold sweat and his face is red. Sam can’t tell if he’s angry or disappointed. Or perhaps, he's a bit of both.

“Dean, look, I’m sorry if I forced myself on you before. But bottom line, if I stay, I can’t promise it won’t happen again,” Sam says, pushing his chair back and getting up to leave.

….

A few days later, Dean looks queasy seeing Sam lugging a travel bag behind, dressed up, all packed and ready to leave; to move out and find somewhere else to stay. This morning, Sam broke the news to Dean over breakfast, hid in his room for a few hours, then came out looking like this, ready for departure. Dean didn't believe it was happening until now. 

“Hold up. So, it's either I let you bone me or you split on me? My choices are committing incest or seeing my brother go,” Dean says, voice harsh.

“No one is asking you to do anything, but I'm leaving, De.”

“Typical, getting what you want or bailing on me. You've always been like this. Classic, Sam,” Dean says, twisting truths, and aiming to wound.

“I'll still see you at work and we'll go out for beers on weekends, just like friends would.”

“Fuck that, I don't wanna be friends,” Dean shoots back, his voice cracking with emotion. “I want my brother. I want to see you every fucking morning and every night. First thing when I wake up and last thing before I go to sleep. Like I always have.”

“So what are you saying, De?”  
  
“Can't we reach some sort of a compromise?” Dean asks, shoulder sagging.

“Probably not but what are you thinking?” Sam himself is drawing blanks.

“I'm thinking we go back to what we've always been and then take it from there.”

“That’s not a compromise. That’s turning back the clocks. Look how well that worked out before. We’ve crossed a threshold, Dean. Being with you like this—Man, I know that exploring comes with a very hefty baggage for us. And I’m not sure if I’m plucky or just plain sad for having pursued you in the first place. But I just can’t go back. I can’t do it,” Sam says and waits a beat.

“Let’s go slow then,” Dean whispers. And for a second, Sam thinks he’s dreaming the response.  _Is Dean being serious?_

“So are you actually considering this?”

“Maybe I am,” Dean says.

“Dean, you can’t joke—not about this, man!”

“Look, I'm not saying I'm jumping into bed with you. But I'm willing to ... explore—”

“And that's all I'm asking, De."

"Sam, you gotta answer me this ... When did you start, you know, wanting this? I mean, you never—"

"I don't know Dean. Last week? Forever? I can't tell."

"Hmm."

"Did you ever—"

"No," Dean says on reflex, slightly defensive. "I don't know. May be. You're my little brother, Sam. You gotta understand. I couldn't let my mind go there ... This isn't easy. I wouldn't choose this for us."  

"Don't you find me attractive at all? Do I turn you off, De? Because if I do, I don't want you to do this just so that I could stay. Like I said—"

"No, I wanna try. I mean, sure, you leaving is bending my arm a little, but—"

"But what?" Sam says, and he can almost literally see Dean's emotions roiling beneath the surface.

"But," Dean begins, stops, then suddenly gives Sam a small smile. "May be we're overthinking this. I mean, it's always been like this, you know. Us. What we have, it's not exactly normal. There ain't one without the other. Even our relations with the girls are transient. And you're—I'm sure I'll regret saying this—but you're tall, and dark, and always been kinda hot."

"When I touch you, De—"

"I like it. I like it when you do. It scares the living daylight out of me, and God knows, I feel guilty as hell but I want it."

"You said you didn't—"

"I lied. You were pushing too hard and I panicked, alright?" 

"We don't owe anyone anything you know. Mom and dad. The world. None of them. This is our life and we can do whatever we want with it. Fuck convention. We've always gave it the middle finger, anyway."

"You're my little brother, Sammy, I'm supposed to take care of you, not take you to bed."

"And I'm a grown ass man, De. I can make my own decisions."

"Yeah, looks like."

"So, give us a chance, please?" Sam begs and feels his heart hammering.

“But dude, the rules still apply, you can’t force stuff on me. I set the pace, Sam. If I stay stop, we stop.”

“Agreed, as long as you don't pussy out the moment you get cold feet,” Sam says.

"It's a possibility. I could end up calling it off, Sam."

"I know, just—give us some time before you throw in the towel." 

"Okay, but no cuddling. No holding hands. No stolen kisses at work like we're friggin' teenagers," Dean says, pointing a finger at Sam.

"I wouldn't dream of it, Dean," Sam says, turning on the charm.

"You sleep in your own bed."

"Happy to, you hog the covers anyway."

"And no chick flick moments," Dean adds amusedly. They both secretly know much Dean _loves_ chick flicks. 

"You have the green light to clock me if I ever pull you into one," Sam says, eyes lighting up.

"Bathroom privacy?"

"Granted! I'll let you piss in peace."

"Hell will break loose and I'm not responsible for my actions if you step a toe out of line, yeah?"

"I wouldn't have it any other way, Dean."

"And Sam," Dean says, his voice gaining an edge, a layer of vulnerability that Sam rarely ever witnesses in his otherwise emotionally guarded brother. "If this doesn't work, you can't ever leave."

"Dean, come on."

"No, Sam, it's part of the package, take it or leave it. I can't have this hanging over my head. I wanna know that I can still have my brother if this goes south, and, knowing us, it might."

"Okay, Dean. I'll stay. It'll be hard but I'll do it ... promise, either way this goes."

“Good. So, wanna haul that gigantic bag of yours inside and unpack, you melodramatic, pissy little bitch?” Dean says, kicking the luggage lightly with his bare foot.

“Na-uh. Not without a kiss, jerk. A proper one, with tongue ... you know, to help me make up my mind. I'm still somewhat confused," Sam says, with a smile whose size he can't wrangle.

"Sap," Dean says, a look of fond exasperation on his face and a soft smile tugging at his lips, and, to Sam, it feels like an invitation.

Sam crosses the distance between them, and takes his naked brother in his arms, burying his face in his neck, scenting him there. They bring their foreheads together and Sam feels his own pulse ratchet up a notch as his brother's lips seek his own.

They kiss shyly at first then passionately and this time, it only takes a little coaxing in the form of Sam swiping his tongue along Dean’s lips for Dean to open his mouth, and let Sam in.

It’s so sweet how Dean starts tensing but then surrenders as the kiss lingers, his brother’s body gradually becoming soft and limber. Dean’s arms come up to wrap around Sam's wide shoulders, bodies now slotting together, and Sam’s hands move from Dean’s hips to grab at the meat of his bare ass, pulling him closer. He can feel his brother's muscles firm up then relax right under his hands as Dean melts into the kiss and into him.

Sam dares to brush the pads of his fingers, feather-soft, along Dean's ass crack, but he doesn't part his cheeks or go anywhere near Dean's sweet spot. He'll save that for later, only when Dean tells him he's ready to be touched there again.

Dean is a great kisser. In fact, he's a hotshot. Probably had a lot of practice with hundreds of girls over the years.

 _Slut_ , Sam thinks, but  _perhaps from now on he'll only be Sam's slut._  

He tilts his face to a better angle, deepening the mind-blowing kiss. Sam can't get enough.

Dean takes the lead, this once, and starts grinding sweet and dirty against him, and Sam fears he’ll make a mess in his pants if they keep going, but, frankly, this is one fear he doesn’t mind facing. He smiles into their kiss, and holds his big brother tighter.

Dean breaks away for a second to whisper between their lips. "Just so we're clear, I'm still not gay."

"Of course, De, neither am I," Sam says, nodding slightly. He reaches up and runs a hand through Dean's hair. Then pecks Dean on the lips, before adding, "totally straight."

"Yeah," his brother says, returning Sam's love-lorn gaze, his head a little heavy and his naked cock twitching and swelling. "Glad we're on the same page."

Dean goes back to eating at his brother's lips ...  _very willingly_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fellow AO3 readers and authors who've read this far, thank you so much! 
> 
> First off, I appreciate your support so damn much! You're all awesome.
> 
> Second off, I might come back and add a 4th smut-only chapter here (some completely consensual lovemaking for the kinky romantics among you) if there's a demand for it.
> 
> Just a quick note: If any of you decide to leave comments, please know that they're greatly appreciated as long as you refrain from insults or needless jibes. These types of unsolicited, offhanded comments do leave a bitter taste.
> 
> I'm here to celebrate one of my favorite TV shows, dabble in fiction writing while trying to entertain, but mostly I'm here to HAVE FUN! Rude comments can distract from the main work, or soil my experience of fandom and that of some readers.
> 
> I very much appreciate constructive criticism and suggestions, and if you've dealt with me before, you probably already know that I do welcome both with open arms. In fact, I encourage them!
> 
> However, if you're a masochist who, for one reason or another, decided to still read my work when some things or everything about it (kinks, prompts, triggers or character dynamics) offend or displease you, please don't take it out on me. 
> 
> I always give ample warnings in notes and tags, so you always know what to expect. If I forget something, and a reader kindly reminds me, I immediately amend the tags.
> 
> Unfortunately, I decided to filter comments on this fic. So anything rude or disrespectful will be deleted off the bat. Everything else (courteous negative or positive critique, from either registered users or anons) is more than welcome.
> 
> If you've come this far, I'd like to thank you from the bottom of my heart for giving my writing a chance. 
> 
> Much love,  
> JL xx

**Author's Note:**

> For The Naturists (the series), I will continue to whip out stand-alone, unrelated fics, short to medium-length, with different sexual dynamics between the brothers (some bottom!Dean, some bottom!Sam), and with varying relationships (brothers Sam and Dean, or non-related Sam and Dean, married or just living together).
> 
> Here's a summary of the next installment I have planned for this 'nudity' series:
> 
> TAGS: Sam/Dean. Bottom!Sam, top!Dean, Sam in lingerie, public nudity, mpreg.
> 
> "AU/ After boxing Lucifer and jumping in the pit, Sam is saved from perdition but instead of soulless, he comes back to Dean intact—soul and all. He confesses his undying love to Dean and discovers that his feelings are returned. 
> 
> Now that they saved the world, Sam and Dean retire (except from the occasional hunt), settle down and get married. Dean puts a baby in his little brother too, and it's all good until Sam's craving of exhibitionism and public nudity becomes palpable.
> 
> Cue jealous Dean who's always been uneasy about Sam's nudist tendencies, which his little brother discovered during his Stanford days. Dean can't say no to Sam. But once out in the open, he becomes wildly protective and proceeds to show the world who Sam belongs to.
> 
> Included in the package: Romance, smut, beach sex, some panty-wearing Sam, pangs of jealousy and possessive behavior! No hunts. A hint of plot (if you blink), lots of porn."
> 
> I'll try to publish it soon.  
> Love, JL x


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